


Ghosts

by nerdrumple



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdrumple/pseuds/nerdrumple
Summary: When Mr. Gold hears Belle has moved back into town, he's shocked that she's chosen to rent from the one place he doesn't own.





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> My Rumbelle Secret Santa gift for puppetmaker40 :) Prompt was "cane of feels," which is, eh, kind of in here. Story got away from me. Enjoy!

There was a splinter in his cane.

It was digging into his thumb. And Gold let it dig, just under the handle, dig and dig, until he was willingly rubbing it with his thumb, a repetitive up and down while he scowled.

“Why did you agree to rent to her?” he asked.

“What do you mean, why did I agree to rent to her?” Jefferson said. “She submitted an application, met all the criteria, set off no red flags. I have the building, she needs the space, bam. Rental agreement.”

“You should have found an excuse. Her credit. Anything.” Rub, rub.

“Her credit’s better than mine.”

“ _Anything_ , Jefferson. Criminal background check.”

“You do those?”

“Of course I do!”

Jefferson sniffed. “Picky.”

Gold sighed in annoyance. “And that’s why all the sex offenders live with you.”

Jefferson dismissed him. “You really think she would have anything, anyway? I doubt she’s even got so much as a traffic violation.”

“ _Anything_ , Jefferson, you could have found a reason. Out of all the apartments in this town, out of all the houses for rent, she moves back here and choses to go to the _one_ building I don’t own. Yours. Very precisely the one that isn’t mine. Your shitty hovel. She’s sending a message.”

“You’re clearly not receiving that message if you think colluding with _me_ to make her go to _you_ instead is a good idea.”

Gold ignored him, favoring his pacing, favoring the strain it put on his ankle, the pain as his thumb dug into that splinter with each step. It helped him sharpen his mind, think harder, more clearly.

“Out of all the buildings . . .” he mumbled.

“I own more than one building, thank you. And it’s definitely not a shitty hovel.”

Gold whipped around. “Belle’s not renting Wonderland Estates?”

Jefferson shook his head.

_“Then where . . . ?”_

“The beach house.”

Gold’s breath caught. He stopped pacing, rubbed his cane again, that splinter again. “ . . . the beach? The beach house? You mean . . . the gazebo?”

“Yeah, the gazebo-shaped one.”

Gold leveled him a look. “Jefferson, it’s - “

“I turned it into a beach house. Don’t worry, it has nice, modern plumbing. Nice, sturdy windows, sturdy walls. Warm enough in the winter. It’s nice, you know? Open floor plan. Good studio apartment. Nice, that place.”

“Stop saying ‘nice,’” Gold snapped.

Jefferson groaned. “You’re being overly touchy today.”

“No, you don’t understand, the gazebo, that’s where we . . . all those years ago, that’s where we . . . before you made it a beach house, or whatever the hell you’re calling it, that’s where we . . .”

“What?” Jefferson laughed, then, in a teasing whisper, “lost your virginity to each other?”

Gold’s face pained, and he squeezed his cane so hard the splinter entered his thumb.

“We weren’t _virgins,_ ” he muttered. “I have a son, for Christ’s sake.”

“But you’re saying that’s where you . . .?” Jefferson raised his eyebrows, then smiled slowly. “Well. Looks like she’s sending you a message after all.”

Gold checked his thumb where a bead of red had started to swell. He wiped it across his cane’s handle, watched the red streak before sucking his thumb into his mouth, and closed his eyes.

 

\---

 

The gazebo of his memories was all windows, none of them he would call sturdy.

Seeing the building now in front of him, he could appreciate the work Jefferson had done to make it a proper dwelling, even if he couldn’t understand why Jefferson didn’t put that same effort into Wonderland Estates. _Nice_ was, perhaps, the proper adjective after all.

He’d put up proper walls, added a small wrap-around porch, and in the back Gold could see a miniscule extension off the building that must hold a water heater or furnace or fridge or _something_ because how could Belle live here?

The edge was lined in a string of white lights, appropriate for the holiday season but also haunting in their appearance through the gray winter mist rising from the ocean. He couldn’t quite tell where the front door was, and hoped a wreath or garland or some other decoration would manifest itself as his guide.

The splinter in his cane remained, had grown worse where he continued to rub thumb and finger at it. With each rub it connected to his thumb, up his wrist, down his arm, and down through to his ankle. The whole right side of his body was now in thorough ache from the splinter, but it helped him to feel something other than the ache of Belle. Their past rang so loudly in him, and now, here it was, so clearly in front of him. She’d adorned and decorated and moved right in.

He stood still, his body frozen as he looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the windows before approaching. The lights were on, but no shadows moved against them.

The columns, the wooden railing, the roof. Years ago, he’d gripped that same wood for leverage, hovering above her.

A cool breeze brushed his hair aside, glittering down a dusting of snow from the trees and into his face. He scowled. All those years ago, there hadn’t been snow - the trees had been fiery red and orange, and they were only just starting to sag their leaves away from the chill weather.

Gold closed his eyes, and remembered.

An apparition left his body, the ghost of his former self moving forward in his remembrance, taking the steps he feared to take himself, up the path and on to the gazebo. And just ahead, her ghost, the Belle he’d known years ago, turning round and smiling at him and encouraging him on.

_“You’ve never been out here?” she asked._

_“No, never,” he said._

_“It’s beautiful. Just the most perfect view of the ocean!”_

_But a perfect view was already before him, a lovely sprite dancing up the steps and leading him thicker into the forest, where a set of columns and woodwork suddenly made an appearance._

_He’d heard of this place. Weddings were held here once, long ago._

_There had been an electric air between them in the car on the way over - a palpable feeling, one that grew thicker and hotter the closer they got to their destination. Every time she turned to smile at him it pulsed._

_“You see? Perfect. Just like I told you.”_

_The gray of the ocean appeared, white swirls lazy in the surf. From up here it made the world look very large, the stretch of sea neverending, and his breath caught briefly, though he tried not to let it show. She was giving him a small gift, he realized._

_She led him inside the gazebo atop the hill and stood at the railing, smiling, positively beaming at him. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, nuzzling his nose into her hair and taking in a deep breath. She reached up and placed one hand over his._

_He wanted very much to kiss her. They’d done so a few times, but were still exploring this thing they had, still feeling it out. Their first kiss had been in his shop, when she’d tripped into his arms by accident after stumbling from a small stepping stool. She’d been admiring his books, had plucked one from the shelf, hadn’t timed her footing just right. But he’d caught her, and, after inhaling her scent, he couldn’t help himself - her incessant flirting had encouraged him - he took the liberty of sweeping his lips across hers, and she returned his fervor. The book lay on the floor forgotten, their mouths opening and her fingers tangling in his hair._

_“So,” she said, her hands moving to the railing, his hands moving to her waist. “I was thinking we could have lights lining the path on the way up, and more lights strung above through the trees, and the band could play here, and if we cleared a bit of the forest floor there, we could set up a  - “_

_“This is entirely unrealistic.”_

_She turned in his arms and planted her hands on her hips. “Oh?”_

_“It’s completely out of the way of town,” he said, tucking a hair behind her ear. “And it will take too much work. There’s no advantage to this place for Storybrooke’s holiday festival over the gazebo already housed in the town square. Mayor Mills won’t hear of it.”_

_“Hmm,” she said, resting her hands on his chest. “I suppose you’re right.”_

_A silence sat between them where she rubbed her thumbs along his tie, and he stared at her, thinking._

_“Something tells me you knew all this to begin with,” he said slowly. “And you have nefarious reasons for bringing me here.”_

_She couldn’t hide her smile, but oh, how she tried._

_“My parents had their vow renewal in a place like this, back in Australia,” Belle said, fiddling with her coat a moment. From her pocket she drew out a rose, slightly wilted, slightly crumpled._

_Gold’s brows rose. “You’re dropping a lot of romantic hints, right now.”_

_“Am I?” she said with a strange smile. She held the rose over herself, high up above her head and looked at him expectantly._

_“Now, what is that supposed to be?”_

_“It’s very clearly a rose from my father’s shop,” she said. “But what it’s supposed to be, for my purposes, is mistletoe.”_

_“Mistletoe?” he said, his stomach starting to tingle. “Christmas is a good two months away.”_

_“True. But with all this planning for the holiday festival as town librarian and representative for my father’s shop, and you, the festival’s prominent financial backer . . . each little trip we take for a secondary venue, well, it’s put all kinds of ideas into my head, you see. And besides, it need not be Christmas for you to kiss me.”_

_The tingle in his stomach burst into something warmer, hotter, bigger. That palpable feeling, taking the shape of her waist and hips. The toes of his shoes connected with hers, and he felt the way she clicked her heels in anticipation. She was already in his arms, but he waited, feigning confusion to her want._

_“Is this why you brought me here, Belle? For me to kiss you?”_

_She blinked, her confidence wavering, and the rose dipped small in doubt. “I . . . yes. I want you to kiss me.”_

_Her waver caused his smile to lose its sass, for seriousness to take over. With a gentle hand, he tilted her chin up to his._

_“You want me to kiss you?” he asked again._

_“I want you to kiss me . . . and to touch me.”_

_Touch her? “Here?”_

_The wind was blowing, the breeze of the sea mixing with the chill of the autumn air. She was bundled in her coat, he in his own wool affair. They were in a flimsy glass house, the air nearly frigid, and this was no place for making love._

_“Here,” she said._

_Her voice was shaking now, and she dropped the rose as his arms scooped her up. Her hands slid up his chest, underneath his jacket and over his shirt, fingers gripping his lapels as he finally dipped his face down to hers._

Gold held out his hand, and remembered!

_He cradled her jaw, his kisses meant not just for her mouth, but her chin, cheeks, neck. She returned his kisses in kind, finding herself fond of sweeping her lips over his nose and eyelids. When her hands found themselves under his shirt and skimming along his stomach, he jumped._

_“Sorry,” she said._

_“They’re just cold,” he said. “Your hands.”_

_She tried to pull them back, out from under his shirt, but he stopped her. “No. Touch me. Warm yourself.”_

_Deeper into his coat and shirt she hid, her hands trailing themselves up and down his skin, across the planes of stomach and chest, and he shivered. When he looked at her, she looked utterly fascinated at the dips of his skin that were revealed with her tentative touches above his waistline. Cold started to bite at him, and he shivered again._

_“You couldn’t have saved this seduction, oh, for a warmer venue?” he said. “The ballroom downtown? The cottage by the docks? The old Booth barn?”_

_She smiled, sheepish. “Like you said, this is completely out of the way. I wanted . . . I wanted it to feel like we were the only two in the world.”_

_“We could have felt this way at my home, in my bed.”_

_She blinked several times, her mouth gaping._

_“Have I shocked you with my suggestion?” he said, running a thumb along her jaw. “Is this not why you brought me here?”_

_“It’s . . . it’s not.”_

_Her hands stopped moving, and his did too. A new cold entered their air, one that had him wondering if he’d entirely misjudged the situation._

_“I . . . I didn’t bring you here to seduce you,” she said._

_He blinked. “Why, then? With your rose and your romantic view?”_

_“I’m sorry,” she said. “I, I asked you to touch me. I got ahead of myself. It’s not why I brought you here.”_

_“Then why?” he asked again._

_“To . . . to tell you. To tell you I love you.”_

_His throat caught, his eyes widened. “ . . . love me?”_

_Her lips were trembling, and her brows peaked in worry. Such fear hung in her face, her heart in her mouth, the one she’d just offered to him. He reached up, fingers tugging at her bottom lip to see inside, see her tongue, see that heart._

_“I . . . I love you, too,” he returned. The words as he spoke them were meant to sound unsure, confused. But. They didn’t. They felt warm, so warm, and soon she was smiling at him, her hands grasping his face, her lips running over his nose and eyes again._

_He couldn’t form words, not after the intimate phrase he’d just spoken. But he started nodding, into her forehead, into her neck, his throat thick, and muttered what he could, that phrase again._

_“I love you, Belle.”_

_The confession left him excited and smiling. He wanted their hands moving again, her palms underneath his shirt again. “Touch me too, Belle. Feel me. Please.”_

_“You’ll let me get ahead of myself?”_

_He smiled._

_She reached for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with shaking hands. She opened the fabric to reveal his chest and stomach, the skin pebbled from the cold and his nipples hard._

_“You’re handsome. You’re so handsome,” she said, reverence in her voice. “I want . . . I want my chest to touch yours. Bare. I want to warm myself against you, like you said.”_

_“Yes!” he said, his breath icing across her in a heavy huff, and his hands moved to open her wrap dress, undoing the knot at her waist. Her stomach and decolletage were just as pebbled as his own skin, and her bra - it unhooked in the front - she reached up to undo the clasp, and soon she was revealed to him - pert breasts covered in gooseflesh, nipples as hard as his own. Her chin chattered, and he pulled her into him, into his skin, moaning into her mouth._

_Their chests and stomachs connected, oh! The feeling of her breasts pillowed against him, her arms wrapping around and kneading his back, deep beneath his shirt and coat. He reached behind her and felt her own back, reached up higher to grip her shoulders._

_She laughed, soft, her lips still shivering and teeth still clicking in a cold chatter._

_“Get closer to me, Belle. Warmer,” he said, as though such a thing were possible with their chests pressed so close already. The feel of her against him was exhilarating, and she started to rub herself into him, and his blood rushed, and he swelled against her, pressing into her hip._

_They were so close his face was in her neck, and hers in his. They were rubbing together, slowly, creating heat between them where their skin connected, warmth, such warmth. He wanted to lick her but feared creating a dizzy spot of cold from his saliva. He took the liberty of rubbing his hips into her, and gasped as she widened her legs to welcome him._

_“I can feel you,” she said. “I want to see you!”_

_“See me?”_

_She pulled back just enough to get a better look at him, though their faces were still so close. She looked down, down where their chests connected, and ran a hand down his side until it reached his waistband. She pulled away, enough that she could peer down into the narrow crevice created by their bodies. A buzz of heat huddled between them, and at the top of his waistband they could see where he’d swelled to full erection, his head just visible._

_“Your cock,” she whispered._

_He was surprised to feel himself blush, his cheeks growing hot at the simple words she spoke, at the anticipation they carried. She looked up at him, that same reverence in her face that she’d given for his chest and stomach. When she looked down again her hand hovered over him, a visible twitch in her fingers where she longed to connect. His cock was leaking a small bead, but the heat between them kept the chill from cooling his tip._

_“Touch me,” he said._

_She cupped him from the outside, first, and he groaned. “Your cock,” she whispered again, and let her hand slide up the feel of him and then down into his pants where she grasped him bare. Their chests connected again, and her hand where it held his cock was smashed somewhere in between them, and they started to rub again. His knees shook from where they could barely keep him standing from the sensation starting to overwhelm him, all this heat, all this touch._

_“I want,” he said, “I want-”_

_“Yes,” she said. “Now you touch me.”_

_He reached for the hem of her skirt blindly, pulling it up at the front where their thighs were connected. Inside where their coats cocooned them he felt the reveal of her stockings, and fingered their hem, gasping when his hand connected with the garters that held them._

_“God. God, you’re lovely.”_

_“You can’t even see me,” she laughed, their faces still buried in one another._

_“You’re so lovely,” he repeated._

_He couldn’t see below, but he could feel. His hand reached around to caress her rear before pushing forward in between them, pushing between her legs the way she’d pushed down into his trousers. He cupped her as she cupped him, rubbing with his palm, gently, gently._

_“Liam,” she moaned, wiggling her hips into him._

_He grew bold, terribly bold, twisting his hand until he could snake under the gusset of her panties and touch her bare the same way she was touching him. She jumped the same way he had; his cold fingers against her hot flesh._

_“Oh my god, you’re so wet, sweetheart,” he murmured. “So, so . . . god, you’re so fucking wet.” Did his voice have to shake so much?_

_The curse had her breath trembling, unconsciously squeezing him harder, and he jumped again, curling his fingers through her wet folds._

_She leaned back again, opening the view of their naked chests to one another, and looked down, down where their hands gripped each other - she where she held his cock and he where he was nearly fingering her._

_She looked up at him, shaking, shaking. “Warm me, Liam.”_

_His eyes narrowed, and he waited for her nod before moving forward. His hand twisted again, twisted until it held her panties aside, exposed her beautiful cunt to him, and her hand fished him out until she was guiding him to her, into her, into her . . ._

And his memory was hazy here, just what had her face looked like, just what had she said, what sounds had she made? Damn!

_The rhythm they set was gentle, unhurried. But the sensations were running up and down his legs, his stomach, he could hardly breathe save to whimper her name. He couldn’t keep this up without leaning against something for leverage, and his hand whipped above them, grabbing onto the wooden railing for purchase as his hips continued to gently pump into her. She held onto him with a desperate grip, one leg having wrapped around him while her hips worked in time with his._

_“I love you too, Liam,” she said, and yes, he’d been repeating it over and over!_

_His free hand, so tight around her waist, cradled her face now, brought her eyes to his. “Belle,” he said. “Belle. Belle. Belle.”_

It was leaving, the memory was fading, no!

_Belle. Belle, I love you, Belle! Don’t leave!_

He had managed himself up the hill somehow, had lost himself so thoroughly in the memory that he hadn’t even felt the steps of his journey as they had transpired. Pain bloomed in his hand, and when he looked down he saw a steady red flowing from his thumb - just how hard had he dug it into the splinter? And his face was streaked, narrow little drops that cooled against his face unpleasantly in the wind. He wiped at the blood, at the tears, and groaned.

When had they come? When had her mouth opened in pleasure? The memory wasn’t complete - the build-up full, but the climax hazy. The memory was leaving him, dissipating as his ghost returned, cruel ghost, back into his body, and he didn’t want it back. With his cane he reached forward, trying with his handle to anchor it back, but it was no use.

He stepped onto her porch, wondering if his steps would wake her. How late was it? The sun was setting, the gray around him growing darker, darker. A fog was settling around him frosted and taunting, and his steps felt useless.

He fell back, back against one of her columns, and stared up into the trees. The last time he’d been here they had been fiery, and Belle’s lips had been red. Here, in the cold, so many years down the road, the trees were bare twigs and he could barely see the ocean through the fog. His own lips, pale and quivering, sobbed from the loss.

He leaned against the gazebo, his ankle killing him, his thumb throbbing. The lights above him twinkled; wait, no, that was his eyes simply blinking away their wet. He had lost his love, years ago, for petty reasons he couldn’t even remember. Arguments, bickerings, whatever it was couples fought over. The usual things. But one day she’d left, and he, he hadn’t gone after her. Coward he was, a coward!

He brought his cane up, gripped it ferociously. A need was sweeping over him - the need that overtook him from time to time, to smash and to decimate, to level the earth around him in his anger and sorrow. But he couldn’t, here, couldn’t strike the home Belle had built from his memories, _their_ memories, oh!

He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have come. She wasn’t here and he feared the _message_ Jefferson claimed she was making was unreal and nothing and he shouldn’t have come.

His cane, he held it up again, and pressed his thumb with great intention into the splinter, watching the red bloom and drip, gritting his teeth, biting as hard as he could.

The blood stumbled down his cane in a slow trickle. He couldn’t destroy, but this he could do. Bleed, and bleed some more.

He stood, turned around. Ready to leave her porch and take the path back down to his car, get out of here, get home, get near something he could truly destroy. His shop, maybe, what use had he of the place?

He turned, he limped away, back to the steps.

But halfway down, a ghost appeared, warm and breathing.

“Liam.”

He stumbled at her voice, his cane nearly failing him, and somewhere near its end, a drop of blood stained the stone step.

“You’re hurt,” the ghost said.

“I’m,” he started, but his vision was full of Belle. Beautiful, beautiful, just as he’d remembered!

She was older, thinner, hair longer, eyes sadder. He was all of these things too, he knew. But he smiled, he couldn’t help it - his cane had managed to anchor his memory back to him after all! It stood before him now, with a confused and awestruck expression on her face.

“You found me sooner than I expected.”

Sooner, sooner, yes  - no time had passed, surely - they’d just stumbled out of the gazebo together after their languid lovemaking.

“Liam,” she said again, walking up the rest of the steps to him, her hands rising to him, helping him with his cane, noting the blood that trickled down, and the splinter he’d grown fond of rubbing.

He blinked and wiped his eye with his free palm. “Belle,” he said. “You came back.”

“Yes,” she smiled, sheepish, so sweet, so lovely.

“Belle, I came to see you, I - I’d heard you’d come back to town, I’d heard you’d rented from Jefferson Bucket and - if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. I’ll go and leave you be.”

She said nothing but shook her head, her brows furrowing and it was she wiping the blood from his thumb now.

“I’ll go if you want,” he said again, she shook her head again, “but when I’d heard that you’d chosen this place, the gazebo - ”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Our gazebo.”

He leaned forward, eyes searching, trying, trying. “Why did you come back?” he asked.

She was pushing him, he realized, steering him back up the steps, and he followed.

“Because I . . . I remembered you.”

Back up the steps and onto the porch, and oh, he’d left a small trail of blood, here.

“I don’t know if the memories you have of me are good things or bad things,” she said.

“Good things, Belle. They’re good things.”

She smiled at his interruption, and looked down, held his bleeding thumb. “I remembered you, one day. The passion we had. I was sitting at the circulation desk in Boston . . . I worked at the library there, did you know? I was about to start some shelving and, well. I remembered you.”

His hand came up to her face, the one without the bleeding thumb, and he held her familiar jaw, and she let him.

She licked her lips. “Like you were suddenly standing beside me.”

“Why? What made you - ?”

“I don’t know, I truly don’t. No image to provoke me, no scent. But suddenly, there you were. It was sharp, like . . . like being pricked with a needle. Or a splinter,” she said, eyeing his cane, holding up his bleeding hand. From his pocket she plucked his pocket square, and wrapped it around his thumb.

“In a large rush, I remembered you, Liam. I remembered what we had, what we were. It wasn’t perfect, I know. It was quite messy, actually. But it was . . . it was _real_ . It had hurt so much, it had felt so good, and it was _real_ . And I didn’t have that, in that moment, there, standing at the circulation desk. I didn’t have that kind of real, vibrant relationship in my life. And for that brief moment I thought, ‘Well, at least I had it once.’ And something . . . sunk inside me, with that thought. I knew right away, that that wasn’t enough. That it’d never be enough. I needed that _real_ again, and I needed it now. So . . . I dropped everything. Changed my life. Came back out here, to have that _real_ again. Rented this gazebo . . . er, beach house . . .”

“Whatever the hell Jeff calls it,” Gold laughed softly.

“Yes,” she laughed in return. “But, this place, Liam, it’s the where we, where we - ”

“Yes. Oh, Belle, I remember. I remember.”

“Then, do you feel it? Are the memories as vibrant for you as they are for me?”

“Yes, Belle, yes! I’m so sorry, I hurt you, I drove you away, I - ”

“We made terrible mistakes, we both did. We hurt each other, quite cruelly. But when I look back . . . it’s not in anger. And it’s not in anger that I wish to move forward. There are apologies to be made, hearts to be mended. Very important discussions to be had. But right now . . . I’d like it very much if you came inside . ..  and let me mend your hand, and your cane.”

His breath released, slowly, happily. His ghost released, relieved, smiling.

“And to grow warm?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Grow warm.”

He brought his mouth to her forehead, and she let him. “I’d love nothing more.”


End file.
